


If I Should Stay

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s05e20 Archangel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-26
Updated: 2010-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is set immediately at the end of the fifth season episode "Archangel." It continues after MacLeod has left the racetrack, leaving behind Joe Dawson, Methos, and the body of his student, Richie Ryan. Without having seen that episode, this story will not make sense. I did an AU-run at “Avatar” and whatever the hell the last episode in this arc was called. I know they were bad, but I wanted to make something good out of them. This story resulted in that desire. I started this story in 1998 and I declare it finished in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Should Stay

Methos continued to stare at nothing, going over in his head what everything meant. MacLeod kneeling next to his beheaded ex-student. Offering up his precious katana to _him_ , of all people, to take the great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod's head. Walking off weaponless.

MacLeod had gone insane. It was the knee-jerk instant answer, but Methos couldn't accept that. Not even after everything that MacLeod had been talking about the past few days. Horton walking the streets. Dead women coming back to life. A dead Horseman coming back to life. It was impossible.

The soft sobs of Joe Dawson ripped into his subconscious and forced his attentions back to the more immediate problem of a dead Immortal with a Watcher and ex-Watcher present. Joe fell naturally to his chest, clutching him for dear life as Methos tried to calm him.

"C'mon, Joe," he whispered to the grieving mortal in his arms. "We can't stay here."

Joe's hand wrapped in the front of Methos' coat and refused to let go. "I won't leave him like this!" he softly hissed.

"We won't," Methos assured him quietly. "I'll get you into the car, then I'll take care of him. I promise."

After a minute, Joe nodded, and Methos guided him to the car. Once Joe was locked safely inside, Methos drew his sword and returned to the building. He warily ducked around pillars and walls, checking that he was indeed alone. Whatever had possessed MacLeod to take Richie's head, he did _not_ want it coming after him.

Satisfied there was nothing there, he ducked into the area where Ryan's body still lay. He sheathed his sword and knelt by the body. Too damn young...they all were. Methos bowed his head for a moment before he hefted the body up. Once his balance was regained, he carried the body to the car. Joe had popped the trunk so all that he had to do was place the body inside and close the lid. He rested his hands on the lid as he shook his head. How had this happened? With a heavy heart, he went back inside and retrieved MacLeod's katana.

~~~~

Methos mentally ran through the past few days as he drove himself and Joe back to Dawson's place. MacLeod had been fine last week. He and Richie had gone to the opera and on the way back, MacLeod had seen Horton. And the old man and his granddaughter. Kronos. Zoroastrian demons. The whole thing was just too bizarre to think about. Methos decided to stick with the facts. MacLeod loved Richie like a son, so something must have affected him, somehow. But what affected Immortals? Dark Quickenings? But they'd already been through that.

Joe mumbled something and Methos glanced over with a small smile. Joe had fallen asleep with his head against the window fifteen minutes ago, and he hadn't the heart to wake the mortal. Joe was looking all his 40-odd years, and Methos was concerned. While Joe never admitted it out loud, he knew Joe thought of Richie as his son, as well. Joe was bound to take Ryan's death hard.

Methos pulled up to Joe's house and shut off the car. He rubbed his face tiredly and leaned back in his seat. Taking Ryan's body to the morgue the Watchers used hadn't exactly been the smartest thing he'd ever done. Joe refused to come inside with him, so it was up to Methos to fill out the appropriate paperwork. Ryan's body would be kept there until either Joe or "Adam" claimed it.

At least there had been no other Watchers present at the racetrack. _That_ would have been a bit hard to explain. Methos slid his glance to Joe, who was still asleep against the window. A knot of worry settled in his chest. MacLeod was still out there, _possibly_ weaponless, most assuredly out of his mind. An unstable Immortal was not something Methos wanted to bump into on his ride home – unless it was with his car.

At least he would have some warning if MacLeod came around. Joe didn't have that luxury. Methos came to a fast decision; he would stay with Joe until they found out what was wrong with MacLeod. He was rather fond of the guitar player and didn't want to see him die before his time. Methos' eyes again fell to Joe. He was debating whether to wake Joe or carry him when the mortal opened his eyes. "Joe?" Methos called softly. "We're here. Did you want any help?"

"I can walk," Joe said gruffly as he pushed open the door and shifted his legs to the sidewalk.

Silently, Methos slipped out of the car and fell into step beside Joe. He followed him into his house and closed the door behind himself. He stood with his hands in his jeans pockets while Joe maneuvered over to his wheelchair. With a heavy sigh, Joe sank onto the chair. It was then he noticed the immortal.

"Methos," Joe stated with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I thought you might like some company."

"I'm not good company right now," Joe muttered.

"I didn't say I was looking for _good_ company..." He hesitated and took a deep breath before continuing, "I don't think it's safe for either one of us to be alone right now, Joe."

Joe snorted. "What, you think I'll turn suicidal 'cause the kid's dead?"

"No," Methos replied calmly as he watched Joe's face carefully, "I think that MacLeod is not in his right mind and may come after one of us." The stricken look on the mortal's face had Methos on his knees by Joe's side in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry, Joe, but it's the truth. MacLeod is an unknown quantity right now. I don't want to take any chances." He placed his hand on the grip of the wheelchair next to Joe's hand. His voice was hoarse as he admitted, "I don't want to lose any more friends, Joe. I've lost so many already."

Joe's hand settled over his and squeezed a promise. "I'm not going anywhere," he vocalized that promise.

Methos felt the rough calluses on Joe's hands and had to fight the urge to run his fingers along them. It had been twelve years since he had met Joe Dawson, and with each passing year, he had grown fonder of him. Fond to the point of...but now was not the time to let Joe know that. There were far more important things to worry about. More important things, like MacLeod's life.

"That's good to know," Methos replied softly. He straightened, shed his coat and made a quick survey of the apartment. Anything to distract him from the arousal he could feel coursing through him. "I'll take the couch, that okay?" he asked as he unsheathed his sword and leaned it against the small table beside the couch. He glanced over to Joe, who was just turning his chair around.

"You sure as hell ain't getting the bed," Joe quipped as he wheeled himself into the bedroom.

Methos chuckled softly to himself. Joe just might be okay after all. He stretched out on the couch, letting his stockinged feet hang over the edge. With a grunt and a sigh, he shifted until he could fully tuck his legs onto the couch. He rested his head on his bent arm and stared at the far wall.

It was no use; he couldn't sleep. Joe's couch just wasn't as lumpy as MacLeod's. Glancing to make sure the bedroom door was closed, Methos reached for the remote and clicked on the TV. He channel-surfed for a good ten minutes, but there was nothing on at two a.m. Disgusted, he clicked the TV off and tossed the remote onto the table.

Methos sighed and got up to explore the apartment. The full floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall drew his attention. Enough moonlight filtered through the window that he could just make out titles on the spines of the books. He let out a low whistle at some of Joe's collection. He selected a second edition Poe and turned the pages carefully. His eyes widened at the inside cover.

"Yeah, signed by the man himself," Joe explained quietly as he rolled into the room.

"Do you know how rare this is?" Methos asked reverently as he held the book with two hands. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he answered himself, "Of course you do." He glanced to Joe, who was smirking. "You owned your own bookstore."

" _Antique_ bookstore," Joe corrected. "And that is my prize possession."

"It is a rare gift," Methos agreed as he replaced it carefully. "I didn't mean to wake you," he apologized. "I just couldn't sleep."

Joe waved him off. "I wasn't asleep either. Too much going on up here." He tapped at his head.

"I know what you mean. Want to talk about it?" Methos suggested softly as he walked over to the Watcher.

"No," Joe replied firmly. "I can't." He took a shaky breath. "Not yet."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Joe. You don't owe me anything." Methos again knelt down by the wheelchair. He kept his voice low as he added, "I understand what you're going through."

"Great; I get to deal with the one man on the planet who understands everything," Joe mocked him as he turned his face away from Methos'.

Methos resisted the urge to sigh. Joe had a right to be upset, and probably didn't even know what he was saying at this point. But it still hurt – just a little. "Not everything, Joe. Don't make me out to be more than I am. I am just a man, like you are," he explained gently.

Joe turned his head to look at Methos, his eyes narrowing. "A man with an extended social security line," he snapped sarcastically.

"Joe!" Methos quietly reprimanded him.

The horrified look on Joe's face was almost more than Methos could stand. He was right; Joe didn't realize what he was saying. He should have known better; Joe wasn't ready to discuss Richie or anything else from tonight. Joe was on pure defensive, sarcastic mode.

"I didn't mean...God, I'm sorry, Methos." Joe tried to turn the chair around, but Methos held firm to the grip.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Joe Dawson!" he commanded. "I won't let you."

Joe rounded on him. "You don't get it, do you, man? MacLeod _killed Richie_. The last time MacLeod nearly took Richie's head, I managed to stop him. I saved the kid from him. And for what? Another year of killing other Immortals, only to die by the hand of a friend? Why didn't I stop him?" Joe raged.

Methos grabbed Joe by his shoulders and forced the Watcher to face him. "Joseph Dawson! You listen to me, and you listen well," he ordered, his voice ringing with authority. "You did not take Richie's life! There was nothing you or I could have done. MacLeod was delusional. If we had tried to stop him, we might have been killed as well. This was not your fault," he stated emphatically.

He felt Joe's muscles relax, and he loosened his grip on Joe's arms. Not thinking, Methos ran his hands down Joe's arms to his hands, which he took in his. "What happened was not your fault," he repeated, his voice quieter now that Joe had calmed down.

Joe's tear-filled gaze met his. "Then why do I feel so guilty?" he rasped hoarsely.

"Because of who you are. You care too much, Joe," Methos whispered as his thumbs unconsciously rubbed at Joe's knuckles. "You can't change." He smiled encouragingly at the Watcher. "I wouldn't want you to, anyway."

"Yeah, yeah," Joe grumbled as his eyes dropped to their hands. Time stopped for Methos as he wondered what Joe would do. He hadn't meant to – he had decided long ago that Joe would have to initiate anything between them. He valued Joe's friendship above all else, and if that was all the mortal was comfortable with, then it was enough for him. He wouldn't waste his time in 'what ifs'.

And now he might have just ruined it all. With a start, he dropped Joe's hands and stood up. "It's late. You should try to get some sleep." Methos' voice sounded rough to his own ears, what he could hear, anyway. Thunder pounded in his head, matched by the thumping of his heart. What had he been _thinking_? Even if Joe was interested, he was grieving the kid. Methos swore he would never play on someone's vulnerabilities again, and here he had gone and all but made a pass at Joe. It must be lack of sleep. It _had_ to be lack of sleep, combined with all the emotional stress. It had nothing to do with how Joe had fallen naturally into his arms earlier that night, or how it made him feel. Absolutely nothing.

What would he do if Joe kicked him out? He couldn't let the Watcher alone, not with MacLeod out there somewhere. He'd camp out across the street in his car if he had to. Joe was not going to lose him that easily. Methos' deep sigh must have drawn Joe's attention, because the Watcher asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied hastily. "It's just that..."

"What?" Joe asked quietly.

Methos felt heat on his cheeks. "Your couch is too comfortable. I can't sleep."

Joe chuckled and turned his chair around expertly. "If that's what the problem is, you can sleep in the bed."

"Joe, I can't kick you out of your own bed!" he cried, horrified that Joe would even suggest it.

"Who said I'm getting kicked out? It's a king-size bed. There should be room for both of us, unless you're a cover-hog, in which case, you can sleep on the floor."

"No, I pretty much stay to myself," Methos answered in disbelief.

Joe paused in the doorway. "Well? Coming?"

"Um, yeah." Methos snapped out of his swirling emotions. What did this mean? Did Joe even realize what he had inadvertently suggested? Did Joe know how he felt about him? Automatically his hand wrapped around the hilt of his blade and he followed Joe toward the bedroom.

He hesitated in the doorway, waiting to see which side of the bed Joe took. He breathed a sigh of relief as Joe wheeled to the left of the bed, near the bathroom. Methos wanted to be closest to the door, and Joe had set it up nicely for him. He walked over to the bed and placed his sword against the nightstand. Quickly, he slipped out of his jeans and sweater and crawled into the bed.

Joe shifted himself from his wheelchair to the bed and pulled the covers over both of them. "Remember, you steal covers, you're on the floor," he reminded Methos gruffly.

Methos slipped his hand under the pillow and ordered his body to behave itself. "Got it," he answered softly as he turned his back to Joe and stared at the far wall. He wouldn't get any sleep tonight regardless of covers or not. Not with Joe's steady breathing behind him and his scent in the pillows.

~~~~

Coffee. Rich, warm coffee. Methos mumbled and rubbed his face in the pillow. He definitely smelled coffee. And...waffles? He jerked awake and eyed the unfamiliar room warily. Where was he? The disorientation faded as his eyes fell to the dresser and the pictures of Joe and his family. Joe's house. Joe's bed. He swallowed hard as he sat up.

"Hey, sleepy-head! You getting up sometime this century?" Joe's cheerful voice drifted in to him.

Methos blinked and tried to focus. "Yeah," he called back. Deciding that right after waking up was not a good time to speculate on anything, he scooped up his clothes and headed into the bathroom to clean up.

"Hope you like waffles," Joe asked as he placed a plate of bacon on the kitchen table. He wheeled to the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice. "This okay?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, fine." Methos felt awkward, and he couldn't say why. He'd certainly had enough people cook for him over the centuries. It felt like a 'morning after', even though nothing had happened. Maybe it was just the shock of waking up in someone else's bed. Yeah, maybe. As his eyes took in the table before him, he couldn't help but smile. "Where you expecting someone else?"

"Huh? No." Joe looked up at him curiously. "Why?"

Methos settled down at the place setting nearest him and grinned. "You made enough to feed a small army. I don't think I eat _quite_ that much."

Joe chuckled nervously as he wheeled to the place opposite of Methos. "Yeah, well, it's been awhile since I had anyone to cook for...I mean, I _like_ to cook," he added hastily.

Methos wasn't sure where Joe's nervousness came from. Maybe it felt like a morning after to him as well? Reining in his runaway fantasies, Methos inhaled deeply. "It smells delicious."

The two set about putting a dent in the food, doing a pretty good job of it. Methos finally drained the last of his coffee and settled back with a satisfied sigh. "That was wonderful."

"Thanks," Joe mumbled around a bite of waffle. "So what are you doing today?"

" _We_ are going to the library to research this demon. Then I'm going to have to stop by my place and pick up a few things."

Joe set down his silverware and shot the Immortal his best annoyed look. "You weren't serious about staying here, were you? MacLeod wouldn't do anything to me."

Methos answered quietly, "That's probably what Richie thought as well, Joe. I won't take the risk. Besides, if we work together, we might come upon a solution sooner."

"All right," Joe relented sullenly. "But you have to cook dinner."

Methos face bloomed into a smile. "How do you feel about sea anemones?"

Joe's groan was almost drowned out by Methos' laughter.

~~~~

Library research was proving more difficult than either man realized. Joe scoured through the online catalogs while Methos retrieved the books. Then they took them all back to Joe's place and spent the next two weeks learning all they could about Zoroastrianism.

"If only Allison's apartment hadn't been torched," Joe mused for what seemed like the dozenth time.

"Well, it _was_ and we had to start from scratch," Methos snapped. He rubbed at his face and sighed. Zoroastrianism and demons were starting to wear on him. Even his five thousand year old patience was wearing thin at the little bits they had managed to piece together.

Joe's gentle voice called to him. "You've been reading through those books for days. You need to take a rest."

"There's no time, Joe," Methos replied as he picked up another book. "The sooner we understand what we're dealing with, the sooner I'll be able to sleep at night."

"I didn't think you'd been sleeping much." Methos glanced up at Joe's reproving tone. How had Joe known? He’d just lain there, in the bed, staring at the far wall. Listening to Joe's steady breathing behind him. Feeling the subtle shift of the bed whenever Joe moved...Joe's voice brought him back from his thoughts. "Are you really that afraid MacLeod will come for one of us?"

He slid his eyes away from Joe's penetrating gaze. MacLeod was only part of the reason Methos hadn't been able to sleep. Feeling Joe's warm body behind his every night caused more sleeplessness than Methos cared to think about. He sighed as he decided on a partial truth. "No, not really. But if all this is true, that this Ahriman somehow made MacLeod see things and he accidentally took Richie's head -- what does that mean for the rest of us? MacLeod was our best hope in this stupid Game; if he can't be found and helped...we are all doomed. Mortal and Immortal alike."

"You're putting a lot of faith in MacLeod," Joe said quietly.

"I know! I know," Methos dropped his voice. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of...happened. Despite everything, he really is too important to lose." He shook his head sadly as he stared at the floor. "But I can't trust him anymore."

"You want your hero back," Joe stated quietly as he wheeled over to him. Methos concentrated on the floor as Joe placed his hand on his shoulder. "That's okay; so do I."

The pounding of his heart was so loud, he was sure Joe could feel it through his shirt. Then Joe's words sunk in. "When did he become my hero?" he mused out loud.

"Probably the same time he became mine; when he walked through my door."

Irrational anger coursed through him at that. Anger at MacLeod for allowing this demon to manipulate him. Anger at Ahriman -- and the whole religious experience just for good measure. Anger at Joe for being so damn comforting -- why did he keep _touching_ him? He jerked out from under Joe's hand and growled, "I need a break."

"Sure." Joe's voice was full of understanding. "Take a walk or something. We both need some space."

Methos grabbed his coat and called, "Later," as he stepped out into the dreary late-December weather.

The stress of worrying about MacLeod was compounding his frayed nerves. Being constantly around Joe was wearing at his resolve. More than once he had to catch himself from touching Joe, or making some sly remark that might be taken the wrong way. He was used to being on his guard, but he'd never had to do it around Joe before. Joe was the one person he felt comfortable being _himself_. No facades, no masks: just pure, complicated, annoying, bad sense of humor Methos. His mouth turned up in a wry smile. No wonder he could be himself around the Watcher; he had just described Joe as well. Except, for Joe, he would add on 'loyal to his friends'. Methos was loyal to no one but himself. It was better to trust only yourself; that way you weren't disappointed when you were stabbed in the back.

His entire body stiffened when he thought he felt the Buzz of another Immortal nearby. Methos did a quick, but covert, assessment of the surrounding area. No one was looking around, and the sensation faded. Was the Immortal playing tricks? Or was he sensing things that weren't there? A cold panic gripped his heart. Was this a trick of Ahriman?

Methos was three blocks from Joe's house. He could make it back relatively quickly, but if it really was an Immortal, he didn't want to put Joe in danger. If it was Ahriman, it wouldn't matter. His made his decision quickly. He kept walking, keeping his senses on full alert. When he had circled the block twice and felt no Buzz, he practically ran back to Joe's house and locked the door behind him.

"What's wrong?" Joe demanded as he wheeled over to him. "Who were you running from?"

"I'm not sure," Methos replied as he tried to catch his breath. "I thought I felt another Immortal, but I can't be sure."

Joe immediately picked up on Methos' apprehension. "You can't be sure? You mean you think Ahriman is targeting you now?"

If only he knew. If only he could be sure. This was why Methos didn't believe in Demons; mind-tricks messed with his perception, and that was something he could always rely on. Magic and sorcery -- it was all mind tricks, meant to confuse and disarm someone. And damn it, it was working! "It's always possible. We still have no way of knowing how it works," Methos growled. "Until we can understand what it really wants, we can't control it."

"That's important to you, isn't it?" Joe asked quietly.

Methos forced himself to pay attention to Joe. "What?"

"Control," Joe stated simply, as if it were nothing important.

Well, it was _damn_ important to him. "Yes." Methos strode over to the couch, picked up a book and shook it in Joe's direction. "The answers are somewhere in here. We just have to find them. This thing will _not_ win, Joe." The book slammed onto the table. "I won't let it."

~~~~~

Something was wrong. Methos kept his eyes closed and let his other senses take over for him.

Both he and Joe had practically collapsed into bed after another day of half-leads and dead ends. Methos didn't think anything would be able to wake him - then Joe shifted in his arms. His eyes flew open. In his _arms_? Indeed, Methos was spooned behind Joe, his arms wrapped loosely around Joe's waist. Had Joe moved during the night? Had _he_? Heart-stopping fear gripped Methos, but before he was able to reach full-fledged panic and run, Joe choked on a sob.

_Comfort._ That's what his mind settled on, and he tightened his grip around the Watcher. "It's okay, Joe," he murmured as he rocked the mortal in his arms. Methos closed his eyes and tried to still the racing of his heart. His level of discipline was wearing dangerously thin, but this late at night, he didn't think Joe would even remember having a nightmare, let alone that he had held him. So he let his imagination wander as he listened to Joe quiet down.

After several minutes, Methos felt Joe's breathing even out, and thought he had fallen asleep. He left his arms around Joe, unwilling to let him go just yet. He sighed and let his eyes drift closed, inhaling the scent that was the mortal.

Joe's hand suddenly slipped over his, startling him. Methos snatched his hand back as if he had been burned. "Joe..." He started to explain, his voice hoarse. "Joe, I'm sorry."

Joe slowly turned his head to stare at Methos. His eyes were clear and honest as they studied the five thousand year old man. Joe raised a trembling hand to Methos' face, softly caressing the deceptively young cheek. "Why should you be sorry?"

Methos' eyes widened in fear. "Joe, do you know what you're saying?" He covered Joe's hand with his and tried to move it, but the hand refused to be moved. Joe's thumb traced an idle circle along Methos' cheek, sending ripples of pleasure along Methos' spine.

"Yes, and I know what I'm doing. Don't think I haven't noticed, Methos. I know you've been watching me all these years, yet you've been content for us to stay friends." Joe took a shaky breath. "And so have I...until now." Only then did Joe break eye contact with the Immortal. Joe's eyes dropped to Methos' mouth and he leaned in closer.

Methos pulled back slightly, his breathing erratic. "Joe, you really don't want to do this," he explained huskily. "This is just a reaction to..."

"To waking up in your arms?" Joe finished for him. "Maybe. Maybe that allowed me to see what's been staring me in the face all these years." Joe tangled his fingers in Methos' hair and pulled the Immortal toward him.

Their first kiss was hesitant, the barest brush of lips on lips. However, it left Methos trembling, and he had to close his eyes for fear of coming just from the sheer _nearness_ of the man. He pulled back slightly in order to steady his nerves. Methos braved opening his eyes to study the other man. "Joe," he breathed, unable to comprehend what they were doing, but not willing to break the spell they were both under. His eyes pleaded with the mortal -- for what, he couldn't say. "Joe," he repeated.

"I'm here," Joe answered with a smile of assurance. "And I ain't going anywhere," he murmured as he tilted Methos' head and his lips closed over the Immortal's. This kiss was more sure; more confident, though they were both hypersensitive to the other. Methos forced himself not to make any demands; only respond. That way if Joe changed his mind at any time, the Watcher could pull back and all would be forgotten.

But it didn't feel like Joe was going to change his mind. Kiss and pull back; that was the tempo Joe started -- teasing pecks meant to whet the appetite, not slake it. Methos kept up a litany of things in his mind to keep his hopes from rising -- explanations in case Joe came to his senses. Joe was dreaming. Joe thought he was someone else. _He_ was dreaming. But still the questions remained: What if Joe thought he instigated this whole thing? Would he ever speak to him again? And when would Joe finally just _kiss him_?

Methos breathed a sigh of relief as Joe's lips finally closed completely over his, taking away all doubts. The roughness of Joe's beard scraped against Methos' barely-stubbled chin as Joe grew more demanding. As if choreographed, their lips opened simultaneously and their tongues slid across one another. A moan of pleasure caught deep in Methos' throat as he tasted the mortal for the first time. Whiskey...even though Joe didn't have any that night. It was the effect of whiskey; old, smooth and sharp all at the same time.

Methos' hand shakily cupped Joe's face, his fingers teasingly lightly against his cheekbone. He gently pulled Joe on top of him, rolling part-way onto his back. Joe's erection pushed against his thigh, his own crushed between their bodies. Little nibbles to Joe's lower lip was all Methos dared, though he wished so much more. He forced himself to remain passive for the time being, letting Joe set the pace and extent of whatever they were about to do. He moaned softly. He wouldn't scare Joe off, not now. Not when the Watcher was kissing him like that.

Joe's mouth was growing more demanding with each passing second. His teeth nipped at Methos' lip, and Methos arched his neck back and groaned. He tugged at Joe's t-shirt, finally getting it to his shoulders, but Joe wouldn't move his arms. He had to break the kiss and snarl, "Joe, _let me_ ," as he pulled at the shirt before Joe would move. Within seconds, the shirt was on the floor, Methos' following a second later. As soon as bare flesh was revealed, Joe descended upon Methos' chest, flicking his tongue against one erect nipple.

"Joe!" Methos gasped as Joe sucked one nub into his mouth.

"I would hope you knew who was making love to you," Joe finally spoke, teasing filling his voice. "I like to hear you say my name," he sighed as he captured Methos' mouth once again in a breathtaking kiss. Joe's hands grew restless over Methos' body, stroking the hard muscles under the smooth skin. Methos reciprocated in kind, kneading the overused muscles in Joe's shoulders and upper arms. Joe stopped all movement and groaned softly, leaning up into Methos' hands.

"That feels too damn good," Joe sighed as he rolled his shoulders.

"There's more where that came from," Methos promised him huskily. He placed open-mouthed kisses against Joe's skin as his hands worked down Joe's back, paying special attention to the areas where Joe hissed. With a twinkle in his eye, his technique changed. At Joe's lower back, his fingers drifted lightly across his skin, moving lower until he cupped Joe's boxer-covered ass with both hands. He guided Joe up to his mouth, where he offered him a soul-searching kiss.

Joe thrust hard against Methos' thigh, trying to relieve pressure on his painfully tight erection. "I'm not gonna last much longer," Joe whispered regretfully as he planted a kiss on Methos' shoulder.

"Then let go, Joe," Methos instructed him softly. "Let go." He wrapped his arms around the mortal as Joe began a steady rhythm. Methos' hips thrust to meet his, his eyes closing in pleasure as Joe’s movements stroked his cock.

"Yes," Methos hissed as Joe ground his hips down on his and came with a force that left him shaking in Methos' arms. Joe's satisfied grunt filled his ears, and Methos lent his own groan seconds later as he held Joe tight and his cock spasmed.

"We are one sorry mess," Joe commented as he pulled away from Methos and wrinkled his nose at their sex-soaked bodies.

Methos reached up and brushed the hair off Joe's forehead. "I'm not sorry," he replied quietly.

Joe grasped Methos' hand and placed a kiss on his palm. "Neither am I. But we definitely can't sleep here."

"Or in these clothes," Methos commented wryly as he gingerly stood up and went into the bathroom. He returned with a couple of towels and helped Joe clean himself up. Joe shifted to his wheelchair while Methos stripped the bed and remade it with fresh sheets.

Methos lay down on his side, head propped up by his hand. "So, you coming back to bed?" he asked with his best innocent look, though the look in his eyes was anything but innocent.

Joe chuckled and mused, "What have I done?" as he shifted over to Methos' waiting arms.

"Made me very happy," Methos replied seriously. He studied the face before him, noting the laugh lines around Joe's eyes. The sudden tiredness reflected in Joe's eyes brought back memories of their night previous to Joe's nightmare. "You need sleep," he remarked.

Joe tightened his grip around Methos' waist, even as he fought back a yawn. "I know. I just want to remember this a little while longer."

Methos chuckled softly. "You won't remember this tomorrow?" he asked, amused.

"Oh, I'll remember," Joe grunted. "There's no way I could forget. But it won't be the same."

"No, it won't," Methos replied quietly. Tomorrow would be the day they had to talk, to evaluate what this had meant...not something he was looking forward to. For the most part, he hated 'talking things out.' It was so much easier to just _feel_ and go with those feelings.

Methos heard Joe's breathing evening out, but wanted to ask him something before Joe drifted to sleep. "What was your nightmare about?" he asked quietly. To his surprise, he could see Joe blush in the faint moonlight.

"Ah, nothing important."

"Joe?" he asked, curious.

"Damn you. I didn't actually have a nightmare," Joe replied with a sigh.

"But, you – Joseph Dawson," Methos murmured as he grinned. "You sly old devil."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Joe defended himself with a smile. He hugged Methos to him tighter. "You’re here."

"I’m here," Methos agreed.

They were quiet for several minutes, then Joe whispered, "Do you really want to know what my nightmares are, Methos?"

"If you want to tell me."

"That one day I'll wake up and you won't be here."

"Ah, Joe. I'll be here as much as I can. But I don't want to get you in any more trouble with the Watchers. I'm being challenged more as the years go on, and I can't afford to be found out as Immortal by the Watchers. I have to be careful."

"I know you do. And I don't want you taking any more risks than necessary." Joe's fingers pinched his ass, and he yelped. Methos tried to glare at the mortal, but Joe was leering at him _just_ so, and it was impossible to maintain the outraged facade. "Outside, that is."

"You really are a dirty old man."

"I'm younger than you are."

"That's beside the point." He nuzzled at Joe's neck. "We really should get some sleep."

Joe sighed. "Yeah." He reached down and pulled the covers over both of them. "Good night, Methos."

Methos had to close his eyes against a rush of emotion. It had been a very long time since one of his lovers had called him by his real name while he held them in his arms. Plenty had cried out his name as an Immortal had killed them, or mortals had raped them, but nothing was sweeter, or more intimate, than his name on his lover's lips. With a contented sigh, he whispered, "Good night, Joe," and drifted to sleep.

=-=-=-=-=-=

"Nothing!" Methos slammed his book shut and tossed it onto the table, along with dozens of others. "For a millennia-old demon, he's keeping a low profile. I can't find any references to Champions or Ahriman or any damn visions in my Chronicles. Please tell me you're having better luck."  
  
Joe barely glanced up from the computer screen. "I'm searching MacLeod's Chronicles now. I may have found something."  
  
Methos was behind Joe in an instant, staring at the screen over his shoulder. "Really?"  
  
Joe turned around to stare at Methos fully. "Did you know Cassandra knew MacLeod before his First Death?"  
  
Methos kept his expression neutral. "Did she?" he answered noncommittally.  
  
Joe continued to stare at him, but finally turned back to the computer. Methos took a deep breath to steady his nerves. The less he actually told Joe, the safer the Watcher would be. If Joe inferred anything...well, who was he to deny or confirm anything?  
  
"This is a report made after MacLeod became Immortal, filling in his earlier life. At approximately age 14, it seems he got lost for a few days in the woods surrounding his village. The rumors were that the Witch of Donon Woods had found him and bewitched him, which is why he recovered from his 'death'."  
  
"Cassandra," Methos supplied.  
  
"Cassandra," Joe confirmed. "She had lived in Donon Woods for a few decades by then. She's taught a few other Immortals, though she doesn't seem to have passed on any of her witchcraft. With one exception: I made a note of the fight MacLeod had with Kantos." Joe tapped a few keys and brought up the proper page.  
  
Methos suddenly chuckled. "Amazing, isn't it? Vemas was furious when I created that database, and the Watchers go and develop one of their own. Hypocrites!"  
  
"Maybe they didn't like your user interface," Joe answered with a grin.  
  
Methos started to tease, "You don't have a problem with it...wait, what is that?" He pointed to the screen.  
  
"Mac had in earplugs as he fought Kantos. I made a note of it because it was unusual. We suspect she taught Kantos some sort of suggestive power or something."  
  
"He learned it from Cassandra," Methos confirmed on a breath. "Kronos knew about it."  
  
"All evidence suggests it." Joe was quiet for a minute, then added, "And there's something else."  
  
Methos felt a cold hand clenching his stomach. "What?"  
  
"My Watcher on MacLeod caught part of his conversation with Cassandra last year. It seems she knew of a prophecy surrounding MacLeod."  
  
"Can I see her Chronicle?" Methos asked breathlessly. When Joe didn't immediately comply, he looked to his lover. Joe's lips were clamped shut in a thin, white line. "Please," Methos whispered desperately.  
  
With a resigned sigh, Joe brought up the file and read aloud, "I taped the conversation, but it was still hard to make out what was said. To the best of my ability, Cassandra told MacLeod, 'Only a child born on the solstice can defeat the great evil.' If that means MacLeod is to be the last One, I can't say at this time. End report."  
  
"Great evil? Did she know about Ahriman?" Methos demanded.  
  
"I don't know, Methos. Great evil could be _anything_. It could have been Kronos for all I know."  
  
"Possibly." Methos straightened behind Joe. "I think I'd like to ask Cassandra for myself, though."  
  
"You can't be serious. You want to find Cassandra?"  
  
"Yes. If she can prophesize, then we need her, Joe. She'll do anything to help MacLeod. I've witnessed that first-hand. If she knew Mac was in trouble, she would help him. Hell, she may be protecting him now for all we know!"  
  
"Thanks for rubbing it in!" Joe suddenly snapped.  
  
"I didn't mean it like that," Methos automatically soothed as he dug around for the phone book. He flipped to 'Airlines' and started dialing. "I know you have Watchers all over the globe searching for him."  
  
"What are you doing?" Joe wheeled over and caught the page Methos had turned to. "Where in the hell do you think you're going?"  
  
"Scotland. I'm going to try to find Cassandra."  
  
"You don't know that she's there," Joe huffed.  
  
"You going to tell me where she is, then?" Methos challenged. Blue eyes locked on hazel, then shifted to the side. "I didn't think so."  
  
"Damn it, Methos, you can't go after Cassandra!"  
  
"Why not? She may hold some of the answers."  
  
"Have you forgotten that she tried to kill you?"  
  
"No, I have not forgotten," Methos answered precisely. "I don't tend to forget things like that. But if she can help us, then I will go to her."  
  
"What if she challenges you?"  
  
"Then she'll lose."  
  
"What about the Voice?"  
  
"It didn't work on Kronos; I see no reason why it would work on me."  
  
Joe's hand slammed down on the receiver. "Methos, stop being so stubborn!"  
  
"Quit trying to tell me what to do then!" Methos raged. He took a few steps away from Joe, turning his back on his lover. His breath was coming in short gasps as he fought for control. "Joe, I have to do this. I have to do _something_."  
  
"Don't you think I feel helpless, too?" Joe's voice was coarse, choked with emotion.  
  
That emotion tore down Methos' last resolve, anguish tearing at his heart. "Don't, Joe."  
  
"Why not? You're allowed to rant and feel useless, but no one else is? Damn it, Methos, I'm his friend, too." Joe's voice softened. "I'm his friend, too." He wheeled up behind Methos, his voice filled with authority. "You're taking me with you."  
  
"No," Methos emphatically stated.  
  
"Why? I could help you. The Chronicles may have maps..."  
  
"You have to find MacLeod, Joe," he interrupted the Watcher. "It's important that we locate him and take assessment of his mental state."  
  
"Of course it's important! Everything is suddenly more important than me!"  
  
Methos hung his head and fought back his tears. He refused to turn around. If he saw Joe's face right now -- if he saw the look in the mortal's eyes -- he knew he wouldn't go. He'd stay, and MacLeod's last chance might vanish.  
  
Joe's voice was deadly calm. "Aren't you afraid of MacLeod coming after me anymore? Is all the danger gone?"  
  
His throat was constricted as he choked out, "No, it's not gone. It's just choosing it's moment to reappear."  
  
"How do you know you're leaving won't trigger it's return?"  
  
Damn Joe and his logic. How could he fight logic? How _did_ he know that his leaving wouldn't set it off after one or both of them? Had it done anything to them yet? Not to the best of their knowledge. Then he hit upon an answer. "I'm not important to it. It would have chosen me for the final battle if I had been." Methos gave a snort of derisiveness. His voice was bitter as he continued, "Five thousand years old and what has it brought me? Absolutely nothing."  
  
"What, you'd _rather_ the thing harass you? Make you kill those _you_ love?"  
  
His control snapped and he whirled around, nearly tripping over his own feet. "There's no one _left_!" Methos' voice raged. "How can you torment someone with loss of love, when they _don't love_?" His chest heaved with unspent sobs.  
  
"No!" Joe yelled at him. "That's a lie and you know it! I've _seen_ you in love! You gave Alexa more love than she could have gotten in a full lifetime!"  
  
"And she's _dead_!" Methos yelled back. "They're all _dead_! Everyone I ever cared about, everyone I ever gave a damn about; they're all gone!"  
  
The devastated look on Joe's face made him quickly review what he had just screamed in frustration, and he felt his knees weaken. "No. Joe, no. I didn't mean..."  
  
"You didn't mean -- what? To say all that in front of me?" Joe replied, his voice hard. "It's a good thing you don't feel anything for me, or else Ahriman might have used us against each other. Now I don't have anything to worry about. I'm not in any danger from a demon hell-bent on destroying everything I love -- because there isn't anybody." Joe spun his wheelchair around and tore into the bedroom.  
  
The finality of the slamming door precipitated Methos' breakdown. Tears slipped from his eyes, and he slowly sank to the floor, suddenly unable to support his own weight.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
In the end, Methos had to leave his clothes in Joe's house. Joe hadn't come out of the bedroom, and Methos was too proud to just waltz in there and gather his things. No, not too proud. Too scared. If he saw Joe, he knew he wouldn't leave. And he had to leave, for all their sakes. He pushed himself up off the floor and grabbed his coat from the rack behind the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned around and swept his eyes over the living room. Spotting a notebook, his quick steps took him to the table, and he started to scribble a note.  
  
 _Joe --_  
  
Was as far as he had gotten in ten minutes. What could he say to Joe? Methos didn't need Ahriman to ruin his life; he didn't need anyone's help for that. Maybe this was for the best. A clean break, a new start in another part of the world. Yes, this was for the best. He recapped the pen and laid it across the lone word on the piece of paper. He locked the door on his way out.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Damn him to hell and back again! The world's most stubborn, arrogant, son-of-a-bitch...then Joe remembered that Immortals were foundlings.  
  
"Can't even blame his mother," Joe muttered to himself as he wiped his face. "To hell with that, I'll blame anyone I damn well want, _including_ his mother!"  
  
Joe refused to give in to the aching hurt inside of him, so he clung to the anger instead. Anger was easier to deal with. Anger didn't let him think too much. Anger didn't let him feel anything else.  
  
Methos couldn't have meant it. He _couldn't_ have. Joe's faith refused to believe that. Not after catching the looks Methos tossed his way now and again over the past twelve years. Not after the way Methos had held his hands less than a month ago. Not after the way Methos held him every night for the past month. Not after the way Methos made love to him the night before.  
  
He rolled out into the living room, fully intending to let the ancient Immortal have it with both barrels...but Methos was gone. Joe listened to the quiet, broken only by the hum of the computer to his right. He wheeled over to the stacks of Chronicles that Methos had left and placed his hand on the top one. As if by touching it, he could somehow conjure up its owner. His eyes fell to the open notebook, and his name written carelessly across the top page. He picked it up and studied it, then in a sudden rage, threw it across the room.  
  
Joe's faith in the ancient immortal shattered as the realization that Methos was really gone settled in his heart. He hadn't meant anything to Methos. He was just someone to pass the lonely nights with. And now that they had finally gotten something to go on, Methos' true purpose had come to a head. Anything to save MacLeod, that's what Methos had said. If Methos could save MacLeod, all the power in the world to him. But _he_ wouldn't give up. Just in case the world's oldest man decided there was no helping MacLeod, and he disappeared into oblivion again.  
  
Not that Joe would have cared if Methos did disappear for good this time. He'd survived Betsy leaving him; he'd survive Methos leaving him. He always survived.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Joe returned home from a day at Watcher HQ and sank onto the couch with a weary sigh. It had been a week since Methos had left, and he was slowly getting back to his normal routine. He had gotten used to someone else living there, and it had taken him time to get reacclimated to being alone. He shuffled through his mail, stopping at familiar handwriting on an envelope. The letter was postmarked Newark, New Jersey, dated the day Methos had left. He very nearly ripped it up, but stopped in mid-tear. He slit the envelope open and unfolded the letter. It was written in Latin -- only Methos would be that pompous. Joe's Latin was a bit rusty -- he hadn't used it in years, but he gave it his best shot.  
  
 _Joe, I did not know what to say to you before I left. I did not think any words were appropriate. I still do not know what to say. I have never lived in the past and do not believe in what-ifs, so I will cut to the quick. I know I cannot take back what I said. I can say I did not mean it, but it was said, so I must have meant it on some level. I have been sitting in this airport for hours, trying to figure out why._  
  
 _The only answer I can come up with is -- I am afraid, Joe._  
  
 _I miss you already. Was it only two months ago that you offered to share your bed? Was it only this morning that you woke me with a kiss? Was it only this afternoon that I left you?_  
  
 _I know you Joe, and I know you will worry about me. I will be careful around Cassandra, assuming I can find her. I will watch my back, and will keep my head firmly attached to my shoulders. I know these assurances are not enough, but they are the best I can do from here. You will have to trust me; trust me to know what I am doing. I must save MacLeod, and I will go to the ends of the earth to do it._  
  
 _I will send another letter when I reach Glasgow, and again at Glennfinnan. I will try to keep you updated on my progress, but I do not know how often I will be able to get to a post office._  
  
 _Be safe and know you are in my thoughts constantly._  
  
  
Joe crumbled up the letter and tossed it to the trashcan, and missed. He didn't bother to pick it up.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Methos squinted at the startling bright sun filling the airport in Scotland. His sense of humor rallied as he automatically dug into his carry-on for his sunglasses. His purpose in Scotland was purely business, and it was one of the few sunny days the country had seen all year. His fingers brushed the familiar shape and he slipped the glasses on. He assembled his paperwork to get his sword through Customs and waited patiently until he was cleared. With a smile and a nod to the Customs clerk, he made his way to the train terminal and purchased a ticket up to Glennfinnan. If Cassandra was there, he would find her. If he got lucky and ran into MacLeod, all the better. But he _would_ find an answer to this Zoroastrian demon, even if he had to tear through every country in the known world.  
  
He passed a rack of postcards and grabbed a handful, uncaring of what was actually on them. They were functional; that was all he needed. He intended to keep his promise to Joe as long as he was able. Settling back and waiting for his train, he contemplated what to say to Cassandra.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
"What in the hell are you doing here?" Cassandra snarled at him. Her sword was held firmly in her hands and pointed directly at his heart.  
  
Methos took a step back, nearly falling off the narrow front porch. He caught himself and planted his feet firmly on the sidewalk outside her house. "I'm looking for MacLeod. Have you seen him?" he asked. He held his hands in the air, unwilling to provoke her more than his presence already did.  
  
"He's in Paris. You know that."  
  
"Cassandra, do you know what's happened to Duncan?" he tried to reason. The hate filling her eyes told him reason wouldn't be enough. "What do you know about Ahriman?" he asked, hoping that would get a response out of her.  
  
It did. She dropped her sword. "Ahriman? How do you know about him? Has he chosen the Champion?"  
  
Well, well, seems the little witch knew a lot more than he gave her credit for. He stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling the steadying and familiar weight of his sword along the backs of his knuckles. "Yes, he has." He didn't elaborate more than that, instead seeing what else she knew.  
  
"The thousand years are not up yet. He isn't ready yet!" She approached him, eyes blazing -- but not with hatred. Fear. "Has MacLeod been approached yet?"  
  
"You might say that," Methos began in an amused tone. "He claims to have seen Horton and Kronos."  
  
Cassandra's voice was a mere whisper. "The visions."  
  
Methos scoffed, "If you want to call them that, I suppose so. Horton I can understand; the man's been resurrected more times than Elvis. But Kronos - in full battle armor, I might add - wandering about the barge? I don't think so."  
  
"It _is_ possible," she insisted. "Ahriman is very powerful. He would do anything to confuse Duncan."  
  
"And anyone in his way?" Methos asked with a catch to his voice. An image of Joe swam before his vision, and a knot of fear tightened his stomach.  
  
Her eyes narrowed at him, and the knot of fear expanded.  
  
"What else? I know there's something else you're hiding from me. Don't think I still can't read you," she warned.  
  
All pretense of amusement fled him as he recounted, "MacLeod took Richie's head."  
  
"His student? Oh, Duncan," she whispered as she raked her nails along her lower lip in thought. "When?"  
  
"Almost four months ago. I've been investigating this Ahriman, and I have to tell you, it seems very unlikely that a demon..."  
  
"Ahriman has been around longer than you," she suddenly spat at him. "He will probably be around long after you are gone. Ahriman is not just name, it is the creator of all evil things. You should know; you and Kronos embodied it for a thousand years."  
  
He almost laughed out loud. He settled for a slightly less offending snort. "Right. We were just pawns in a universal game of Good versus Evil."  
  
Cassandra's eyes narrowed in anger and disbelief. "Believe whatever you wish, Methos. Kronos was evil to the core. Do you think evil like that naturally exists?"  
  
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Kronos wasn't pure evil," he replied carefully. "He was just an Immortal bent on world domination." Cassandra pinned him with her gaze, held him immobile, until he was practically sweating. She knew something else; he could tell. She could never lie to him. He suddenly felt the overwhelming need to defend his position with a flip comment. "Besides, I've never seen a demon."  
  
Her head tilted fractionally. "Sometimes you cannot see what is right in front of you."  
  
He swallowed and took a step back. Away from her. Away from the thing that was dancing just at the edge of his perception. " _No_ ," he replied heatedly. "I mean, this thing created visions. I've never seen anything." His voice got louder and higher, desperation making it crack. Desperation to make her see. "I was a Horsemen, plain and simple. I loved the power that came with it. Freedom to be myself. Freedom from everything."  
  
"And this was always your nature? You always wanted that power?" she asked calmly. She regarded him a minute, and he felt as if he were under a magnifying glass. "Do you want it now?"  
  
"I -" Methos was at a loss. Somehow she had gotten the better of him. He thought he was immune to her witchcraft, but he _was_ out of practice. He hadn't come here for a psychoanalysis. All he wanted to do was help MacLeod. MacLeod. Just thinking the name steadied him enough for his natural defenses to come back. He snapped, "If you think I still need that power, then you have learned nothing in three thousand years."  
  
"And you would have learned nothing, either," she immediately flipped back. Her voice didn't soften, but her gaze did, which unnerved Methos further. "But I can see that you have changed. It took me a long time to realize that. Ahriman was using you, or you were using him; it doesn't matter now. You did his bidding, whether you realized it or not. I know now that it was necessary. I don't forgive it, nor will I ever forget, but I understand." Her tone abruptly changed; she was all business. "I have seen MacLeod in a vision, but I didn't understand it until now."  
  
Everything was swirling around in Methos' head until Cassandra spoke that line. "What? What did you see?" He stepped toward the witch. "Did you see his death?" he asked through a constricted throat.  
  
"No, not his death. But death surrounded him. I assume Richie was the only one so far?"  
  
"What do you mean 'so far'? How many others die?" he demanded, thoughts of Joe sending his heart pounding. "We have to stop him."  
  
"You can't even find him!" she shot back at him. "How can you stop something you cannot see?"  
  
"How can MacLeod _win_ against the embodiment of Evil? This is all preposterous!" He turned to leave.  
  
"Methos! Methos, wait! Please."  
  
The catch in Cassandra's voice stopped him cold. It was the same tone she used when Kronos dragged her out of his tent, pleading with him to stop the madness nearly two thousand years ago. Ahriman's madness. Their madness. He clenched his hands into fists so they did not shake, then turned to glare at her. "What?" he snapped.  
  
"For MacLeod's sake, I will help you. But after this is over, if I ever see you again, I will kill you."  
  
"You're always welcome to try," Methos tossed back calmly. "For MacLeod, I will accept your help."  
  
Cassandra invited him into her home and they dissected her vision.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
 _Joe - I found C. I am heading to Iran to follow up on a lead. Will write from there. -M_  
  
Methos dropped the postcard at the postal office at the Glasgow airport. It wasn't much, but he didn't have a lot of time to waste, either. They had already lost precious time in the battle between good and evil. He still wasn't sure he believed in it all, but MacLeod did, and that was enough for him.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Joe continued his research, even going so far as to call in a few favors at Universities across the globe for help. Three postcards and a letter had arrived from Methos from around the world in the past few weeks, but he had more important things to worry about than Methos' whereabouts. MacLeod was still missing. No Watcher had seen him in any part of the world. It was as if MacLeod had just simply vanished.  
  
Well, if he didn't want to be found, maybe it was for the best. If MacLeod stayed away from civilization, then that meant he stayed away from other Immortals. And that meant he kept his head.  
  
Life had returned to pretty much normal in the seven months since Richie's death. Joe missed the kid, but it didn't consume him. It wasn't like Richie was his son, though every once in awhile, he felt like Richie's surrogate father. Maybe it was his own guilt at not pursuing a relationship with his own daughter. Maybe he just really liked the kid. Whatever it was, he had pretty much put it behind him. He had just purchased a bar and had a lot of work to do to get it ready for opening.  
  
"Le Blues Bar" wasn't up to the levels of "Joe's" back in Seacouver, but it wasn't bad. A few locals had become regulars, and he had a local band come in once a month to wail about local problems. Sometimes, he took up his guitar and sang the blues.  
  
He didn’t think about how hard it was to fall asleep at night.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Another week went by, and the house phone rang at the bar. “Le Blues Bar,” Joe answered cheerily. A faint crackle told him the call was long distance, and he immediately was on guard.  
  
Methos’ voice sounded tinny and ragged, but it relayed the words Joe had been waiting to hear: “I found him.”  
  
“Where?” he replied, his only thought for MacLeod and his safety.  
  
Methos’ voice wavered in and out, as if he were walking underneath bridges that interfered with the reception. “Tibetan monastery. Says he knows how to defeat Ahriman.”  
  
Silence settled over the line, and Joe wondered which of them would break it. He didn’t want to; Methos had left and several dozen postcards hardly made up for that. Even if it had put his mind at ease that the Immortal was keeping his word that his head remained attached firmly to his shoulders.  
  
“Joe,” breathed Methos over the line, and Joe closed his eyes at the world of feeling in his name.  
  
“After you get back,” Joe replied, not wanting to discuss anything over the phone.  
  
Methos was silent another minute, then said softly, “I’m staying with MacLeod until this is done.”  
  
Joe nodded even though he knew the movement couldn’t be seen. “Good. He’ll need someone there.”  
  
Despite the fading connection, Joe heard Methos’ sigh. “I’ll see you in a week; maybe two. MacLeod doesn’t know how long this will take. If it’ll even work.”  
  
“It’ll work,” Joe said, voice full of conviction. “Just come home in one piece.”  
  
“We will, Joe.”  
  
=-=-=-=-=  
  
Methos wasn’t sure what to expect after the odd echoes of Kronos’ laughter vanished from the cave. There had been a cacophony of voices, odd sounds mixing with that laugh he would never, ever forget.  
  
What he didn’t expect to find was MacLeod calmly sitting in the lotus position, mediating. “MacLeod?” he called quietly. He was eerily aware of the similarities of MacLeod’s position and how he’d found him and Ryan’s body over a year ago. His sword was out, at the defensive.  
  
“It’s okay, Methos. It’s gone,” MacLeod stated as he glided to his feet, startling Methos back a few steps. “I’m not armed.”  
  
Stunned, Methos took a step forward and lowered his sword – minutely. “I can see that. So how did you defeat Ahriman?”  
  
A serene peacefulness settled over MacLeod’s features. “Love and acceptance.”  
  
Methos snorted derisively. “Right. And I’m my Aunt Fanny. If I had an Aunt Fanny, that is.”  
  
MacLeod shrugged, and Methos studied him intently. Something was definitely changed in the Highlander. Perhaps for the better; perhaps not. It was too early to tell. “Are you ready to go back to Paris?” he asked instead.  
  
At MacLeod’s nod, something in Methos released and he allowed his tense shoulders to relax. Finally, something was going right for a change.  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Methos stood next to an equally nervous MacLeod as they entered Joe’s bar in Paris. Methos followed MacLeod down the short steps leading down into the tables area, his eyes sweeping the bar. It looked good; dark and smoky, just like Joe. He battled with himself not to make a scene, but it _had_ been a year and he needed to see Joe. Needed to know they were okay. Needed to know he wasn’t hated.  
  
“Mac.”  
  
Methos startled as Joe came from some side door he hadn’t seen and had MacLeod in a strong embrace that MacLeod looked to be returning just as forcefully. He glanced around some more, understanding the bond between Watcher and Immortal and tried to give them some semblance of privacy. It wasn’t long, though, before he heard Joe’s gruff voice say his name.  
  
“Joe,” he replied, keeping his voice light and steady. He was under no delusion that things were strained between them; possibly even ruined. He wasn’t going to be the one to end it, though. Joe would have to be the one to break it off, be it their friendship or their ‘something more’. He just hoped it didn’t come to that. In between worrying about MacLeod and endless hours on trains and planes, he’d had too much time to think. About mortals and their so very short lives. About how he wanted Joe to experience some of the wonder and love that he’d been able to show Alexa.  
  
So he was utterly unprepared for the right cross that cut across his cheekbone. “Ow!” he declared as he stared wide-eyed at Joe.  
  
“That’s for sending me postcards and letters from all around the world, letting me know you were okay,” Joe explained as he flexed his hand.  
  
 _That’s_ how you show your gratitude?” he gasped, twisting his jaw as though it still pained him. He’d forgotten just how strong Joe’s upper body was.  
  
“No, this is,” Joe intoned gravely, and Methos had no time to defend himself as Joe grabbed his shirt and proceeded to get reacquainted with his mouth, teeth, lips and tongue.  
  
Methos stood stock-still for all of two seconds, then stepped into Joe’s personal space, drawing the other man closer. He honestly thought he’d destroyed their friendship and the potential for anything further. Unwilling to wait any longer, he pulled back and murmured, “I’m so sorry, Joe.”  
  
“I know you are, you dumb ass,” Joe replied, drawing him back into another kiss.  
  
The sound of a throat clearing drew them apart again. “Yes, MacLeod?” Methos asked as he twisted to sit next to Joe, who had just sunk down into the nearest chair.  
  
MacLeod looked lost, and still strange with his short hair. “When did this happen?”  
  
Methos snorted as Joe explained, “It’s been a year, Mac. Things change; thank God. I got tired of waiting for this yahoo to get with the program.”  
  
“It was quite romantic; he seduced me in his bed,” Methos added with a sly grin. He pretended to just remember something and snapped his fingers. “I don’t have a place to stay tonight, Joe. Is it okay if I stay with you?” His tone was light, but the look he shot Joe was anything but. He was asking for more than one night, and he could see that Joe picked up on that. Methos’ heart raced as he waited for Joe to make his decision.  
  
“On one condition,” Joe intoned gravely. “You steal the covers again, and your ass is relegated to the couch permanently.”  
  
He could feel his face crinkling up in a huge grin. “Anything you say, Joe.”

The End


End file.
